


Disarmament

by windchijmes



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dark Elves, M/M, Molestation, Non-Consensual Touching, Public Humiliation, Stripping, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windchijmes/pseuds/windchijmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Mirkwood, the Elves first strip Fili of his weapons, then clothes and finally dignity. Singled out and humiliated, Fili struggles to keep his pride intact. The rest of the Company are forced to watch in helpless rage. But despite his ordeal, Fili manages to steal a blade from  his captor and smuggle it back to his dungeon.</p><p>
  <b>(Warnings: NON-CONSENSUAL TOUCHING, public humiliation, forced fingering, Fili whump, dark!Elves)</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disarmament

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20966143#t20966143

The baldric is the first to go. Unbuckled by hands of extraordinary structure – weapon-calloused yet long and fine-boned.

The young Dwarf spares a single glance as the last of the buckles is worked free. There is a flicker in his gaze, then it dissipates, replaced by the arrogance that has hardened his face since the capture.

Very well. He unsheathes the twin falchions, his fingers lingering over the intricately-wrought blades. No doubt they have been forged by skilled hands. “These are precious to you,” he says, testing him.

The Dwarf says nothing, his bearing proud as ever.

So he sets the baldric and falchions aside, laying claim to them and drawing another glance from the Dwarf. The throwing axes from the boots are the next to go. He curls his hands around the Dwarf’s legs, feeling for the angular edges of metal hidden in the fabric. The Dwarf remains impassive, and his curiosity is piqued.

What will it take to wrench an emotion from this Dwarf?

He discovers more concealed weapons, throwing knives light of weight yet pure deadliness in intent, along with several intriguing discoveries.

Under the heavy layers of armament and cloth, the Dwarf’s form is lean and muscled, yielding no softness at all. And his hair, which lies in heavy masses and braids around his shoulders, boasts a shade of gold richer than even the metal itself.

He takes one of those braids now, examining the clasp that cinches it. Like the Dwarf’s swords, the workmanship is exquisite.

“Careful,” the Dwarf says in an almost bored tone. “It may poison you.”

His gaze flicks up sharply, and does not miss the disdainful curl of the Dwarf’s lips. The first tendrils of anger snake through his blood, and he restrains them with calculated ease. There will be a time and place for punishment.

Releasing the golden braid, he gives a smile that has nothing to do with mirth. “It will take more than this to poison me,” he reassures his captive.

He slides a hand beneath the Dwarf’s coat to pull out a dagger. The hilt is inscribed with a distinct insignia, and the Dwarf’s name etched onto its surface.

“You can look in my breeches,” the Dwarf suggests most impudently. “Perhaps I’ve got a cleaver in there.”

He draws himself to his full height then, pleased at how the Dwarf’s gaze rises upwards with his motion, never once looking away. The defiant ones are the most tragic when broken. Most Dwarves possess appearances like the caverns of fire and brimstone they dwell within. Broad and coarse with blunt, crass edges. Not this one. The golden Dwarf’s features are well-formed, even swathed in the remnants of foul cobwebs as he is. His eyes in particular, blaze azure fire in his face.

“Do you now?” he says in a low voice, one that only his captive will hear. At his peripherals, he sees how his proximity provokes the ire of the other Dwarves. Two of them, dark-haired and bearing more than a passing resemblance to this golden Dwarf, bristle in warning. He smiles again. This band of Dwarves gets more interesting by the moment.

Nonchalantly, the Dwarf pulls open his fur-lined coat, palms flicking out in a cavalier manner to prove his complete state of disarmament.

The urge to wipe that smirk off the Dwarf’s face is sudden and near-overwhelming. But as with all untoward emotion, he once again stems it back, keeps it shackled in the pits of his being. _Later_.

Straightening himself, he flicks his wrist and removes the last offending dagger from the Dwarf’s coat. Then he gestures to the guards. “There are more weapons concealed on their persons. Especially this Dwarf,” he says most calmly, his tone belying the strange crackle in his belly, the twitch of eagerness of his fingers.

The Dwarf senses the undercurrent of danger in the air. He is far more perceptive than what he reveals outwardly. For the first time since their capture, uncertainty steals into the Dwarf’s azure eyes. But true to his nature, he steels himself again and glares up at the Elves now surrounding him like a cold, scornful wall. _Excellent_. A quarry which does not fight is little better than a carcass.

“Get away from my brother!” Interestingly, it is the young, dark-haired one who reacts first, lashing out in explosive anger and throwing himself against the hold of the guards.

 _Brother_.

The golden Dwarf glances warningly at his kin, ordering him silent.

Oh, how poetic. The good, self-sacrificing golden son protecting his people.

He motions the guards closer, and _feels_ that thread of dark anticipation gliding from one Elf to the other, binding them in an unholy union. Here, in the beguiling deep of their woods, they need no light and no pardon for their sins.

He bends and leans down so close to the Dwarf’s face he can feel the rapid gusts of warm breath upon his lips. “We will conduct a most thorough search, _Fili_ ,” he says, testing the name upon his tongue, and smiling sharply at the intake of breath from the Dwarf. He angles his head and speaks into Fili’s ear, intimate as a lover, breathing poison in his words:

“ _I am Keeper of the Dungeons._ _I will leave no stone unturned_.”

++++++++++

Fili stares straight ahead without a word. His arms are tied at the wrists. The knots are tight enough to be uncomfortable, but without causing permanent damage. He can struggle, but he will not be able to free himself without help. And more so than ever, he is starting to understand how dangerous these Elves are.

They are far from the beings of light and grace so often described in lore. Their silvery voices ring with contempt and darkness pervades their hearts. They remind Fili of a water-serpent he’s once seen in the river, twisting and skimming right beneath the surface, a most deadly presence lurking in the midst of tranquility.

He is shoved ungently forward and bade to walk. So are the rest of the company. There is something happening though Fili does not know what. He feels it like a tear in the air itself, as if all life around them is holding its breath. _Waiting_.

The Elves march them on with purpose, and Fili now sees the clearing waiting for them. A single tree stands at its head, once mighty and now rotted at its core. All its leaves are shed, leaving only branches silhouetted against the sky like splintered bones. A rope dangles from one of them, a clasp swinging on its end with macabre merriment.

The Company, all twelve of them, are forced to their knees and their torsos trussed with rope. For a brief moment, Fili is thankful that Bilbo has yet again disappeared and is spared from this ordeal. But the gratitude fades as he watches his companions growl and fight against their bonds – how can they not? Dwarves are not creatures given easily to humiliation. And the ones who struggle the hardest are his own brother and uncle, because Fili stands now right under that rope, put on display like a sold slave.

Fili wants to reassure them, but hears his own breath instead, harsh and erratic. The words have long died in his chest. He says nothing even a heartbeat later, when his wrists are lifted over his head and secured to the clasp above. But he keeps his gaze on the _Elf_ , the Keeper of the Dungeons as he addresses himself. As far as beauty is defined, this Elf is the fairest of his kin. Even clad in armour, his countenance is that of carven alabaster, and his hair as dark as the woods around them. Yet his eyes are bitter flints in his face. He simmers with unfulfillment.

He smiles now, cold and beautiful. Fili _looks_ at him with all the grit he can muster, and does not let his gaze waver even when his boots are unbuckled and removed. It leaves his feet bare and touching the ground only at the front of his feet. He has to plant himself firmly, with difficulty, just to stop himself from dangling.

“ _How dare you!_ ” it is Dwalin who bellows, his brows drawn in anger. He lunges and _almost_ – Fili’s stomach flips – manages to break away from the guard gripping him. Dwalin, always the first to protect the line of Durin.

“How dare I?” the Keeper repeats like an amused parent. He treads a circle around Fili, slipping out of his line of vision, and easing up behind the bound Dwarf like a sinuous shadow. “You are trespassers in our woods. I am merely enforcing our laws and keeping our grounds safe from foul creatures.” He sighs and lays a hand on Fili’s hair, stroking the golden locks as he would to a dog. “Your little pet here shall serve as an example.”

Kili’s cry rings out like an arrow through the stifling air. “Don’t you call him that!” he sputters in fury. “Remove your hand – leave him be – !”

Unbidden, Fili’s head jerks towards the sound of his brother's voice, and stops short with a hiss as the Elf twists his hair.

“Now, Fili, stay still,” he chides, resuming his petting of the Dwarf’s head. “Shall we begin our search?” he nods at the Elves standing at attention. “Bring the knives.”

The _knives_ , when Fili sees them held up before him, are his own. Something in him withers at the sight and he wonders why he’s never considered that they would one day be used on him. It’s almost a joke at his expense. He can feel the grin, manic and strange, lifting his lips. How funny – _how_ _funny_.

“Would you kill me?” Fili scoffs. If it’s death that comes for him, he will plunge headlong into it. And if it’s pain, he will take it and swallow it, and remember that the Maker would show mercy and grant him death.

“Nothing of that sort, Fili,” the Keeper laughs, one that sounds like bells on a winter’s night, and just as empty. And when he speaks again, he is so very gentle. “Though in the end, you may well be _wishing_ for it.”

The Elves work quickly, slicing the knives through the layers of his attire at the shoulders and chest. They show little care for Fili’s comfort, jerking the fabric off his body, and cutting through any stitches that refuse to yield. Once or twice, the blades tear his skin, shallow cuts that bleed but do not threaten. Through it all, he grits his teeth, forcing his expression into one of composure. He is Crown Prince in waiting, even in the face of humiliation. _Even when_ the shoving grows cruel and he is made to swing from his bonds, his feet forced to scrabble against the ground to right himself again.

They stop and retreat when he is clad only in his smallclothes. They are of the thinnest linen and offer little protection against the chill. Prickles shiver across his skin.

Fili does not let his head lower, or his chin drop. One by one, his comrades fall quiet, and he draws solace from their silence. They keep their eyes on him, holding him up and protecting him just from the strength in their gazes alone. This is _theirs_ – not something that other races can ever understand.

“Perhaps now,” what sounds like spite crawls into the Keeper’s tone. “We will see about that cleaver in your breeches.”

The blades whisper through the linen, and Fili does not even blink as he is fully bared to all. There is no shame in his nakedness, and none of his companions allows him to feel any as they arch their heads in rebellion at the Elves. But he senses the scorn from the Elves like a scorching brand on his skin.

Let them bask in it, he swears to himself. Let them wallow in their derision. They cannot hurt him if he won’t let them.

As if reading his thoughts, those same graceful fingers that had removed his weapons earlier now curl around his bound wrists. They skim lightly over the skin of his forearms and across the curves of his shoulders, pausing at the cut above his collarbones. One finger runs over the shallow wound, gathering the blood beading on the skin. Then the hand pulls away, leaving a tingling in its wake, and Fili _hears_ the Elf licking the blood into his mouth and savouring it on his tongue.

“You taste far sweeter than you appear, Fili.”

The frown twists across his face before Fili can stop himself. He has not expected that. What is the Elf playing at? Across the clearing, the rest of the Dwarves shift on their knees, their stoic defiance cracking. Thorin’s mouth opens as if he wants to speak – and Fili sees an emotion he does not yet understand in his uncle’s gaze. Kili’s head whips this way and that as he searches his elders’ faces, livid and just as confused as Fili is.

Then, the Elf hand on his shoulder begins to glide downwards until it reaches Fili’s nipple. The fingers tease at the nub, drawing a reflexive start from Fili’s body, kneading until the nub surrenders and stiffens into a peak.

“Is this why you bury yourself in all your cloth and weapons?” the Keeper’s tone drips with false civility. “Because your flesh is unsated?”

The insult blisters Fili from the inside out and it is all he can do to clutch at the last vestiges of his facade. _He will not yield_.

Kili cries out again, shrill and furious, and Fili stares helplessly at his brother as the hand continues its sickening path down his body to his thigh. He rends his fingernails into his palms, willing himself to remain still and calm. The Elf means to disarm him, throw him off guard. This is a mere strategy, a loathsome but cunning plan.  

But the touch. The touch feels _wrong_ on him. He knows flesh pain and murderous intent, and this is neither.

Still, he will not succumb. He _cannot._ He has not been brought up as an Heir of Durin to bow down to an Elf. His teeth clamp down on the insides of his cheek as the Keeper’s hand delves deeper to caress his inner thigh –

Then Fili finally _jerks_ at his rope, an unwilling moan rumbling in his chest.

“Surely you enjoy this, Fili?” the Elf sneers at him. “Were you not begging me to search you more thoroughly?”

He hears his companions struggling, desperation now searing their movements. Then, his uncle’s voice silences all of them.

“ _Wait_.”

 Fili looks across and realises it is _fear_ in Thorin’s eyes. Every battle-worthy Dwarf knows never to be used against his kin. He would sooner choose torture over manipulation.

Thorin, _their King_ , breaks the unspoken code for his sister-son, and Fili’s heart aches. He had meant to be strong – not – not like _this_.

“Wait,” Thorin says again and he is paler than death itself. “I will bear whatever punishment there is,” he exhales slowly, knowing he has effectively surrendered. “Release him.”

“He is a mere lad,” Balin speaks up, his tone of forced diplomacy barely concealing the tremors in his throat. “He knows and hides nothing,” he ends placatingly, sounding like he’s _begging_.

The ache pools behind Fili’s eyes, clouding his vision. Behind him, the Keeper hums in his throat as if he is contemplating the latest development in the situation. He removes his hand from Fili’s thigh and finally, Fili remembers to breathe.

“That is a tempting proposal, Dwarf,” the Keeper acknowledges.

Thorin is a stony, silent statue. Only paces away from his uncle, Kili looks stricken.

“But there is _one last place_ to search,” the Elf’s words soften into a sweet, vicious whisper as his fingers burrow into the cleft of Fili’s buttocks.

Fili’s eyes flare wide and he wrenches against his bonds, body twisting in a taut arc.

There is a single moment of silence in the clearing.

Then Thorin throws himself forward, his face white. But he is dragged back by two Elves, who force his shoulders down and _make him watch_.

“Unc – ” Fili blurts before he falters with a panicked gasp. His mouth drops open in blank shock as he feels the Keeper’s fingers pressing at his entrance. No. This is worse than mere humiliation. It is _defilement_ and what would be left of him afterward?

Again he writhes away from the Keeper, the rope above him whipping taut, the branch groaning. But the fingers are relentless. They dig inside Fili and work their way upwards, scraping through him in blunt, filthy pain.

Fili’s vision darts bleakly over his kin’s faces, and sees only a tapestry of despair.

Kili is _screaming_ in frothing, anguished rage, a steady, sawing shriek rising above the bellows of the others. They lunge and thrash and fight, but the desperation in their eyes mirror Fili’s own.

Fili’s eyes slip shut and he makes his befoulment his own.

“You have softness in here yet,” tinkling laughter in Fili’s hair, while those fingers drag back and forth through the deepest, most intimate part of him. “I will be most careful with you.”

“ _Why_ …” Fili feels the word trickle from his mouth. The touch of lips against his ear drags a weak groan from him and he tries to turn his face. His chin is seized and held in place.

“Because the most beautiful of beings are those who reach for perfection and _fall_ ,” the words slither into Fili’s mind. “That is what you are, Fili.”

A coldness spreads inside Fili. _No_. The Elf lies.

“Pain beseems you, golden Dwarf. You wear it well. So beautiful. So tragic.”

The fingers thrust impossibly deep, reaching deep within him. And something in the pain gives way.  

“I will be the nightmare in your slumber and the fear that pursues your waking days.”

The first tendril of pleasure coils in his loins, and Fili begins to shake in revulsion. The Elf is _inside him_ _tainting him smearing him_.

“You will never be free from me.”

Between Fili’s legs, his flesh hardens and he knows he is lost.

The Keeper removes his fingers with venomous victory, wiping them on Fili’s buttocks.

His wrists are released and Fili crumples bonelessly against his tormentor. Careless and drunk on triumph, the Elf caresses his hair again, feathering a kiss across his forehead as if he is consoling a desolate child.

The Elves leave Fili unclothed.

He is dragged to his feet and told to move. The company fights even more fiercely against their ropes, spitting and lashing out at the Elves with renewed fury. Trying to get to Fili and cover him. Kili manages nothing more than hollow croaks, his voice thick with tears.

He sees nothing. He does not look at his companions. He moves, placing one foot in front of the other, clad in only his naked shame. He is made to walk in front of his comrades so they will bear witness to his degradation.

The only thing that keeps his mind from fading into madness is the cold metal in his bound hands.

Later, when he is flung into his dungeon and left on the ground, he slides out the Elven blade from his trembling grip and cradles it to his chest.

Then, he closes his eyes and dreams of death.

++++++++++

In his dungeon, Thorin seethes in impotent rage. It is what he has feared the most – his sister-sons coming to harm – and Thorin himself useless to save them. Useless and later, reluctant. Thorin recalls his interrogation by the Elvenking and his hatred swells in his chest. He had revealed nothing.

Nothing of the quest.

Nothing of _Fili_.

It is a strange emotion to feel so pained for his elder nephew. He has never worried for Fili the way he does for Kili. Fili is always dutiful. Sensible. _Safe_. Not stripped before his comrades, and defiled like a common whore.

If the Dwarves had been as mighty as they once were – lords under the mountain and sovereigns of endless vaults of gold, who would dare lay hands upon any of them?

He would have the Elf maimed and damaged beyond repair for what he had done to Fili. He would see the Elvenking and all his kinsmen bow down to the Dwarves in penance.

And to do that, Erebor must be re-taken.

_The gold must be claimed._

“Uncle.”

The red haze of Thorin’s mind disappears and he recognises that voice. He leaps to his feet, not quite believing that he is seeing Fili standing before the dungeon door. Thorin feels a wash of relief at the sight of the coat covering Fili. The image of his sister-son hanging broken and naked at the clearing still eats at his mind. It is one that will haunt him for as long as he lives.

The lad is already unfastening the lock, his movements deft and precise. When he slips into Thorin’s dungeon, urgency thrums in his breathing. “There is no time. We have to leave now. Bilbo is already planning our escape.”

“The Hobbit?”

“He has been hiding and now he arrives in time to help us.”

Thorin lifts his bound hands for the blade to slice the rope free. _Elven_. “How?” he bites out under his breath.

“Bilbo – ”

“I mean _you_.”

Fili slips the blade back under his coat. He meets Thorin’s scrutiny briefly, then looks away. “I stole the blade from the – Elf.” he mutters, fixing his gaze on a point beyond Thorin. “I cut my ropes free. Later, the Keeper of the Keys came with garments. He was intoxicated. It was easy enough to knock him senseless and steal his keys. It seems I’ve acquired quite the skill of stealing from Keeper Elves,” Fili’s tone is unbearably light, flippant.

Thorin’s heard it before. He’s watched his sister-sons from birth and he can read them better than even themselves. The more Fili hurts, the less he reveals it. Thorin has to ask. He hates it of himself and he knows it would only agonise Fili, but _he has to ask_.

“Did he – ”

“No,” Fili cuts him off. “We must go now.” He turns to leave –

And Thorin seizes his arm, drags him back to search his face. Fili’s gaze is wide. “ _Did he touch you?_ ”

“No!” the lad snarls, then swallows convulsively and tries to speak again, his lips beginning to quiver. “No, he _didn’t_. He couldn’t – ” he freezes.

“Couldn’t,” Thorin picks up on Fili’s slip instantly. He is intense, not allowing the boy to turn away from him. “What do you mean?” When Fili’s lips press together in stubborn silence, he tightens his grasp. “Speak, Fili!”

Fili stares back at him, and something akin to shame and distress finally surface in his eyes. Then it is gone, replaced by flat hardness. “He said no Elf would touch something already soiled.”

The rage surges in Thorin again, fiercer and brighter this time. He seeks to speak and discovers to his devastation that nothing he says will ever right a wrong such as this. He pulls his sister-son into his chest and lays a hand on that golden head. A ghost of a memory flickers in Thorin’s mind – a golden Dwarfling crying as he holds up his gashed knee for Thorin to make better.

He does the same now, in a different time. He holds Fili until the boy eventually sags against him. The lad shakes with sobs, but not a single one of them is given sound. He clutches at Thorin’s arms with the frantic desperation of a dying man.

“This changes nothing, Fili,” Thorin tells him, anger lending strength to his words. “You will always belong with your people. An Heir of Durin’s line.”

The lad’s trembling eases and he draws back from Thorin’s embrace. “I understand, uncle. I will not be defeated by this.” He seems so tired. “I will free the others,” he pauses, then looks right at Thorin. “Get Kili,” he finishes softly.

Then he slips out of the dungeon.

++++++++++

The barrels are a tight fit, but the Dwarves manage.

Fili moves without stopping, assisting the Hobbit in urging his comrades into the barrels that would help them escape.

_Fili!_

He knows without looking it is Kili who calls for him. His brother’s voice is hoarse and distraught, but Fili does not look at him. He must not. Kili will rise above their ordeal and stay untainted, the way he always is.

Fili sinks into the gaping maw of his barrel. The roar of the river pounds in his ears, escalating in a crescendo until he is drowned in it. The barrels tumble into the water, carried along by its current.

They teeter on the edge of the waterfall, straining towards freedom.

Fili closes his eyes and sees a form take shape in his darkness.

The barrels begin to fall.

And just before the plunge, the Elven shadow reaches out, embracing him in his descent.

 

_finis_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> At last count, I have had Fili traumatised/hurt by a Dwarf, Man and now Elf. Hmm. How many more races do we have in Middle Earth?  
> And I just realised I kickstarted year 2014 with a Fili whump fic! OMG.


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